Chapter 3

Chloe’s POV

The cabin was quiet except for the soft drone of insects down by the lake.

Sophie had drunk too much at dinner. By nine she was completely out, sprawled face-down across the big bed and dead to the world.

I locked myself in the bathroom. The mirror showed a flushed face and unfocused eyes.

My legs still trembled faintly.

The panties Victor had ordered me not to dry were glued to my skin, soaked through by the constant slick that had been leaking out of me all day.

I could smell myself—sweet, heavy, unmistakably in heat.

The lock clicked once, soft and terrifying.

Victor pushed the door open and walked straight in.

He had just finished showering next door. A white towel hung low on his hips.

Water still ran down the hard planes of his chest and disappeared under the edge of the towel.

The small bathroom filled instantly with the thick, steamy scent of fire and blackthorn. Breathing got harder.

“How did you get in—” I stepped back until the cold marble counter dug into my lower back.

He didn’t answer. In the dim light his eyes had gone full dark gold.

He locked the door behind him, crossed the space in two long strides, and pinned me between the counter and the heat of his body.

He lowered his head. His nose brushed the side of my throat and he dragged in a long, deliberate breath of my scent.

“Good girl. Still wet.”

Before I could push him away, one strong arm clamped around my waist and lifted me, setting me hard on the counter.

My back hit the big mirror. I was forced to arch toward him.

In the glass I could see my own flushed face and the panic in my eyes.

Then something thick and burning-hot pressed between my legs through the thin towel—no warning, no hesitation.

My knees gave out. I had to grab his solid forearms just to stay upright.

He didn’t bother taking my soaked panties off.

He simply used the full, scorching thickness of him—still trapped under the rough towel and my wet cotton—to grind against that most sensitive spot and open entrance.

Every heavy stroke forced the fabric deep into my folds. The friction was brutal and perfect.

Slick poured out of me in thick waves, making wet, filthy sounds that quickly soaked a dark patch into his towel.

I shook my head, teeth gritted, but my hips still rolled, chasing more pressure. Sophie was right outside. I still couldn’t stop.

“Don’t… Victor… Sophie’s out there—”

“Sophie is dead drunk.” He bit my earlobe, hot breath spilling down my neck. “You could scream the place down and she wouldn’t hear a thing.”

He stopped grinding. Up close his golden eyes were almost glowing. The sharp, cold lines of his face were pure predator.

“Chloe. Your wolf is starving for me. Admit it.” The command was low and rough.

I locked my jaw and refused. Tears still slipped out—purely physical, from the empty ache that was turning vicious in my belly.

I couldn’t say it.

He only smiled. Rough fingers yanked the edge of my panties aside and three thick fingers shoved straight into the soft, dripping heat of me.

My head snapped back. A broken sound tore out of my throat. My walls clamped down hard around him.

He curled his fingers and fucked them into me hard and fast, thumb grinding ruthless circles over that swollen little peak.

Pleasure hit like a storm. He kept me pinned to the counter; all I could do was cry and take it.

Just when I thought the fingers alone would make me come, he pulled them out.

Both hands gripped under my arms and lifted me like I weighed nothing.

He set me higher on the cold marble, forced my thighs wide open, and left my soaked folds completely exposed.

I tried to close my legs. I couldn’t.

Victor lowered his head.

A hot, rough tongue dragged straight up the dripping folds between my legs.

My whole body jerked. My hands fisted in his hair. No one had ever done this to me.

The pleasure was too sharp, too direct.

An Alpha’s tongue was worse than his fingers—flexible, relentless, greedy.

He swallowed every drop of slick, tongue flicking hard over that swollen little peak before driving deep into the empty, aching heat that had been begging all day.

He sucked and licked with wet, open-mouthed sounds that made my face burn. Thinking became impossible.

“Victor… please… put it in—” I lifted my hips, pushing my soaked folds against his mouth, then shamelessly rubbed myself along the thick, straining length of his hardness under the towel.

The emptiness in my belly hurt. My entrance kept clenching, desperate to be filled.

“Want me to fuck you open?” He lifted his head. His mouth was shiny with my juices. The gold in his eyes was cruel and amused.

I nodded hard, frantic.

He stood, pressed the thick, burning tip of his length against my entrance, and dragged it through the mess of slick.

Just when I thought he would finally shove inside, he pulled away.

“Tonight you only get to want it.” He looked down at me, voice full of absolute control and pure meanness.

“Touch yourself. Imagine me fucking you until your legs give out. Do it until morning.

If you can manage that, next time I won’t stop.”

He turned, opened the bathroom door, and left me alone—clothes half-off, legs still spread wide on the marble counter.

The empty ache between my thighs was almost unbearable.

Clear slick dripped steadily from the edge of the counter onto the floor tiles.

I watched his back disappear and felt nothing but hate and a hollow, hungry emptiness.